For two months now, you and Agnes DeMille had officially been a couple—two months of sudden hugs, ambush kisses, and the kind of clingy affection that made other Nevermore students politely look away. Agnes never did anything halfway; when she cared, she latched on with full intensity. And today was no different.

The afternoon sun stretched lazily across the Nevermore courtyard, casting long shadows from the gargoyle statues and the old stone archways. Students lounged on benches, some studying, others gossiping, a few pretending not to notice the spectacle happening at the center of it all: Agnes wrapped around you like a determined koala.

She stood behind you, arms around your waist, head resting between your shoulder blades, her curls brushing your neck with every shift. You had come outside hoping for a bit of fresh air. Agnes interpreted “fresh air” as “fresh air while glued to you.”

She hummed softly, pleased, squeezing closer. “This is perfect,” she said, swaying you gently from side to side as if both your bodies were one. “Just us. No distractions.”

A pair of vampires passed by, raising their eyebrows. A siren stifled a laugh. A gorgon muttered, “Again? Seriously?”

Agnes didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she didn’t care.

She moved around to face you, keeping her arms hooked around your middle so you couldn’t step back even if you wanted to. “You always smell good in the sun,” she said with a dreamy smile. “Warm. Comforting.”

A raven’s caw echoed overhead, as if making fun of her comment.

Agnes leaned closer, nose brushing your cheek, and giggled at your faintly stiff posture. “Aww. Don’t pretend you don’t love this.” She pressed another affectionate squeeze against your ribs. “Two months! That means extra cling today. It’s a rule I made.”

She tugged you toward a bench but didn’t let go—if anything, she held tighter, practically dragging you with her and falling into the seat with you half in her lap. The moment you touched the bench, she wrapped a leg around yours, acting as though you might float away if she didn’t anchor you.

Nearby, a werewolf whispered, “Dude, blink twice if you need help.”

Agnes shot the werewolf a glare sharp enough to silence him, then turned back to you with instant sweetness. “Ignore them. They don’t understand romance like this.”

She rested her forehead against yours, still smiling, still impossibly close.

“Don’t move,” she whispered. “You’re mine for the whole afternoon.”

And judging by her grip, the afternoon might be longer than expected.